As Darkwing scanned the room, it seemed to him that everybody from town was there; his mom -- half way to cloud nine under the influence of her Xanax -- , Chucky's mom, Timmy Lane's parents, Tracy and her family, the parents of other kids from around Burlwood Meadows. Even the Duncan's, Dawson's and Marshall's were there. Then there were the teachers from school, Father Lovett and Rusty, the maintenance man from the church, and people he recognized from Burlwood Downs. Just about everybody he could imagine, except for Launchpad's parents. For some reason, they hadn't seen fit to come.
No sooner were the boys settled into a group of plastic folding chairs in the back row, munching their snacks and drinking their sweet drinks, Sheriff Clyde Rambo approached the podium at the front of the room. He tapped the microphone mounted to it a couple of times, dull thumps booming through loudspeakers positioned to his left and right as he did.
"Okay, folks," he began, clearing his throat. "If everybody can find a seat, we'd like to get this thing underway. I know it's Saturday, everybody probably has things they want to be doing, so we'll try to keep it short and sweet."
The few stragglers that were still standing closed in and hurried around, as though the song had stopped and a game of musical chairs was afoot. Fellow citizens scooted towards the center of the rows they sat in to open up seats by the aisles, trying to be sure that everyone had a chance to find a place to sit. When it seemed they were all settled, Rambo continued. Deputy Ron was standing not far from him, just a bit behind him and to his left.
"Before we begin, I'm going to invite Father Lovett up to say a little prayer for us. Father, come on up."
On command, the priest took over the lectern and asked those gathered to bow their heads. Nearly everybody did, including most of The Burlwood Boys. Jacob didn't, though, he didn't like to pray... didn't believe there was any God listening anyway.
What kind of God would've taken his father away from him the way he had?
What kind of God would let his mother suffer in such misery, now that her husband was gone?
What kind of God would let The Butcher do what he was doing to so many little children?
If there was a God, he wasn't the kind of person Jacob wanted to have a conversation with. He was a person Jacob didn't like at all, so why would he offer prayers to him?
Watching with his eyes open, his head held high, Darkwing listened as Father Lovett prayed for the souls of Gary Duncan, Joshua Banks, Nathan Dawson, Kirk Wade and, now, Ricky Marshall. He prayed that God reach out to their families, to their friends and their neighbors. He prayed that God watch over Burlwood in the challenging days to come, that He bless everyone and keep them. He prayed for Sheriff Rambo and Deputy Ron, that He might guide them and steer them in the right direction to bring an end to this terror.
When he was finished, he cried amen in a voice that was obviously fraught with emotion. Those gathered uttered a similar amen, then opened their eyes on a world that was much the same as it had been before they offered their prayer.
Nothing had changed, in fact, as a result of their efforts. The dead were still dead... the evil was still alive... the killer still at large... the children were still in danger.
God had apparently not heard their appeal, that's all that Jacob could assume. He was apparently out of the office, apparently otherwise engaged. More likely, he figured, God wasn't there at all. Perhaps he was dead, like Jesus, who hadn't risen from his grave because coming back from the dead is impossible.
Or, perhaps, there had never been such a creature as God to begin with. Perhaps he was make-believe, just like the monsters Chucky thought were lurking in Booger Woods. Maybe it was all just a fairytale, a fantasy -- like he figured the place called Heaven was.
His mother insisted that her husband, his father, was looking down on them from this glorious place... looking down and watching over them. Jacob knew he wasn't looking down, not from Heaven, at least. If he was looking down at all, it was from the rafters of the shed... swinging at the end of a noose he'd tied around his neck. His shoes were dangling over the ground, hanging halfway off his feet because he'd been kicking his legs around after he pushed the ladder out from underneath him. He was wearing a sign that said I'm Sorry, even though he wasn't. If he was watching them at all, it was with his dead and bulging eyes... with his pants filled with shit and blood dripping from his mouth, just as he had been when Jake found him that cold Christmas morning.
He wasn't guiding them or protecting them, either... not the way she said he was.
His father would never have allowed her to spend so many nights crying until her face was swollen, until she was having a hard time breathing because she couldn't keep up with her sobbing. He would never have allowed her to curl up in a little ball, to pull her knees to her chest and wrap her arms around them so tight that it seemed it would take the jaws of life to tear them apart.
He wouldn't have allowed Jacob to feed her little pills, like they were Pez candy, until she was so stoned that she eventually forgot why she was crying to begin with.
He wouldn't have allowed her to call her son by his name when she was so high... wouldn't have allowed her to take off her shirt, her bra, and then ask Jacob to touch her... wouldn't have allowed her to run her hands up his leg until he had to pull away because, Jesus, she was going after his private parts... wouldn't have allowed him to have to sit and watch her chest to make sure that she was still breathing when she finally passed out... wouldn't have allowed her to exist in a drug induced stupor.
Garrett Jacob Gigu?re -- his father, after whom he and his son, in turn, were named -- would never have allowed them to live the way they were living. They would be better off dead, like him, than living the way they were living.
Even his mother realized that, and she talked about it all the time... said she wished she was dead, wished that she could die. Wished that she could take Jacob with her, so that they could be together... so that the three of them could be a family again, in Heaven... a place that Jacob didn't believe was real.
His father was not looking down on him from Heaven...
God was not looking down on him from Heaven...
If He was, He was the worst, most frightening, most deranged, most depraved boogeyman of them all.
To pray to God was to waste breath... to waste energy... to waste hope, to waste faith on a deadbeat fantasy that never failed to break its promises. Our father, who art in Heaven... hollow be thy name, and hollow be thy heart.
Thanking Father Lovett, Sheriff Rambo returned to the podium and took over the proceedings.
"First of all, I want to thank all of you for coming out," he said. "I also want to thank everyone for their kind wishes and for the outpouring of support I was blessed to receive after my recent cardiac episode. I want everybody to know that I'm doing much better, and my doctors tell me this was an isolated incident. They say I'm in fine condition, and I have nothing to worry about moving forward."
There was a round of applause, which made the man smile. The cheering was in celebration of a white lie, nothing too severe or egregious. He needed to shed some weight, watch his diet and pop blood pressure pills a few times a day. There would come a time to consider a pacemaker soon, but that was down the road a ways. It was nothing terminal, so long as he was careful.
Nodding and smiling, he waited for the cheering to quiet before continuing. "I know you're all concerned, and I hope you know I'm the most concerned of us all. As you've probably heard by now, we found the remains of Ricky Marshall near Butcher's Lane Provisions early this morning. Based on the evidence we have available to us, we're convinced that the perpetrator or perpetrators were the same as those that killed the other children."
There was no collective gasp, no surprise among those gathered at this revelation. They were used to this sort of news, they knew how things would end up when a child went missing. The Sheriff had refrained from using the sinister moniker issued by th
e press, The Butcher Of Burlwood, to identify the assailant, which was also no surprise.
The phrase had become taboo, they didn't care to hear it uttered by the man in charge any more than they liked seeing it in print or hearing it on the television. Refusing to embrace it made it easier to pretend these things weren't happening here... that they were things that only happened in other people's cities. To invoke the name The Butcher Of Burlwood was to acknowledge that this was their problem... to fully accept the crisis that was percolating in their town.
"I've consulted Sheriff Dickinson of the Elsmere County PD, who's been working with us since Gary Duncan's murder, and he's suggested that I seek the assistance of state and federal authorities to help us get through this."
This bit of information did illicit a response, a chorus of whispers that swept the crowd as they discussed the ramifications amongst them. Sheriff Rambo had expected this reaction, he knew the mindset of the populace he served. The people of his town would lament the decision to reach out to higher powers, it was just their way. To bring them in was to invite prying eyes into their humble and otherwise quiet neighborhood... to bring judgement and subjugation.
The State Police had assisted in the investigation of every slaying since Joshua Banks, but the people of Burlwood were largely unaware of that fact. They may not have minded, even had they known -- the state police were still Hoosiers, still of a similar creed. What was coming now, though, was something much bigger. Something much more intrusive.
Now that the tally of the dead had reached five, all of them having been boys between the ages of eight and twelve, all of them having been sexually assaulted and dismembered, there was no denying the fact that a serial killer was at large. One that had an affinity for the young boys of Burlwood.
A serial killer on the loose represents a major threat to society, that alone can draw attention. The fact that he preyed sexually upon children sealed the deal. It meant that reports filed at the local level were escalated and reviewed all the way up the chain of law enforcement. These facts combined, this equation that was not singularly unique in the greater scheme of The United States as a whole, set in motion a series of events that culminated in the ringing of Sheriff Rambo's phone late the night before.
When the fact that Ricky Marshall was missing had traveled the circuit, all the way to the top, Special Agent Gomez was obliged to call... to cast his hat, the biggest hat of them all, directly into the very center of the ring where a championship fight was imminent.
There was no choice, no decision to be made regarding the involvement of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Not on the part of Sheriffs Rambo or Dickinson, at least, and not even Commisioner Dix of the Indiana State Police had any real voice in the discussion. The arrival of the Fed was compulsory and inevitable, whether any of the officers or citizens involved liked it or not.
They would turn the town upside down and shake it, like an old couch that had swallowed up a bounty of coins that they intended to retrieve. They would pull back all of the veils, rip down all of the curtains and peek through all of the windows. What's more, they would huff and puff and blow a house in -- if it looked like something inside could be of any consequence.
No proud person likes to concede that they can't take care of their own business, that they can't clean the messes within the four walls of their own house. To call a maid -- to call the FBI -- is, so far as most proud people are concerned, an admission of incompetence... of unwillingness or incapability. An acknowledgement of the fact that they are unable to handle things on their own.
Clyde Rambo didn't feel this way, though, he was glad that help was coming. He needed help, this train was getting away from him. The last thing he wanted was to be forced to see more innocent children lose their lives.
He was tired of trying to suppress the memories, the photographs and blood spattered canvases of murder done in portrait. He was tired of smearing Vicks Vapor Rub under his nostrils to mask the stench of death, tired of looking upon the tortured and bloodied faces of kids he had watched grow up -- until their right to continue growing was taken away from them so brutally. He was tired of seeing them end up in little pieces, torn asunder and spread around like so much trash out by the curb.
If Agent Gomez could close this case -- if he could find the killer and bring an end to all of this -- that would be just fine by him. He didn't need to claim the glory of catching the bad guy. He didn't need to be remembered as the hero of the day. He didn't need to be remembered at all, he just needed this madness to stop... before he lost hold of it entirely.
Knowing that the community he policed was sensitive, though, that they were independent to a fault, and that they wouldn't appreciate the arrival of people they considered outsiders, he presented this information in a manner that he hoped would help to soften the blow. He would paint it as a choice. As a decision he made, of sound mind and with good intentions, as a plea on their behalf.
"I know this might not be a popular decision, folks," he said, "but I find that I must agree with Sheriff Dickinson. There's too much at stake here! Too much to lose, if we don't take action. As a result, based on that conclusion, I've contacted the FBI. I've spoken with Special Agent Alberto Gomez, who will be personally managing the case and assisting us in investigating the murder of Ricky Marshall. Together with him, we will examine all of the murders, including those of all the other children we've lost in days gone by."
The whispers continued, growing in volume and liveliness, as the people expressed their concerns and discontent among themselves. In the back row, Darkwing and the gang didn't understand why this troubled their parents and neighbors. They weren't the ones in mortal danger. What did it matter to them if city folk swept through the town in search of answers? What did it matter if the cavalry conquered the villain instead of The Lone Ranger. What difference did it make if it were Sheriff Rambo or Agent Gomez that caught The Butcher, so long as he was caught?
The intensity of the audience grew and doubled, people shouting out their objections and cursing the Sheriff for taking such unilateral action. They cried this is a democracy, this is our town, and keep Uncle Sam off my property until they were blue in the face. What does the FBI know about us? What does the FBI care about our kids?
"This isn't about the FBI!" a sobbing woman cried from among them.
As she jumped to her feet, everyone saw who she was... knew who she was. She was Penny Marshall, mother of the most recent decedent, Ricky. Her face was fiery red and painted with tears, snot dripping from her nose as she pointed accusingly and damningly at Rambo upon the stage.
"This is about YOU, Clyde!" she shouted. "About YOU and how you can't handle it! About YOU and how you've failed us!"
Another citizen stood and rushed to Penny's side. It appeared to be Rita Duncan, Gary's mother, but she moved so quickly that it was hard to tell. She grabbed hold of the distraught woman, trying to calm her and return her to her seat. Her efforts were in vain, Penny wasn't finished yet... hadn't spoken her peace yet.
"It's YOUR fault!" she howled, as loud as any person has ever howled upon this Earth. "You told us you would take care of this! You told us you were gonna make this right! YOU were supposed to be protecting our kids! YOU were supposed to be finding this monster! Where the fuck were YOU when my little boy was being killed, Clyde? Where were you when he was scared and crying out for help? When he was being raped like some kind of dog? Where were you and your fucking badge when he was being chopped into little pieces? What good was your fucking investigation to him? How could YOU let this happen? How can you sleep at night, how can you live with yourself? How can you live with the knowledge that YOU let this happen? Fuck you, Clyde! Fuck you and damn you, you bastard!"
Rambo offered no rebuttal, made no attempt to settle her. He looked defeated on the stage, defeated and deflated. Had the audience started casting stones at him, he would've stood rig
ht behind the podium and accepted his fate with shame. Had they built a crucifix in the hall, he would've carried it up to the stage and laid down upon it, spreading his arms and crossing his feet to accept the nails. Had they declared that he should draw his service revolver and fire a bullet through his brain, he would've done so to appease them. If the spilling of his own blood would've washed clean the blood of the children slaughtered on his watch, he would've slit his throat over a trough and let it fill until there wasn't a drop left in him.
He was at a loss... a loss for words, a loss for answers, a loss for hope and for comfort to give.
Seeing this, Deputy Ron asserted his authority and used his heavy hand to regain control. He waived to a few Elsmere County PD officers that had been stationed in the back, instructing them without words to remove Penny Marshall from the room. She kicked and screamed the whole way, Rita Duncan still trying to comfort her with tears of sympathy and understanding.
"Okay, people, settle down!" Boudreaux barked, brushing Rambo aside and laying claim to the microphone. "Now this ain't helpin' nothin', all y'all's hootin' and hollerin'! It is what it is, and there ain't nothin' we can do about it, so let's not dwell on it! The dead are dead and gone, there ain't a thing we can do to bring them back! This man has worked day and night on this case, he eats No-Doze like it's candy! Taking it out on him is not what we do, not here, not in Burlwood! When it comes to the Fed, The Sheriff has made his decision, and he's right! Now let's hush up and let the man speak! Have some dignity, people, let him speak!"
The crowd quieted at his urging, at his order. Without a word, he backed away and let Rambo continue. The Sheriff seemed to appreciate what Boudreaux had done, signaling him with a nod of approval and thanks. He was still shaken, though... still troubled.
"I'm sorry," he said, a weakness in his voice that no one present was used to hearing. "I'm sorry that I don't have all the answers... sorry that I can't bring back the dead... sorry, that I'm failing you in your time of need. Like Ron said, I don't get much sleep... I can't sleep, even if I wanted to, because when I close my eyes all I see is... all I see is the kids..."
The hush that had swept the crowd deepened, the people moved by his display of emotion and regret. Not another word came from their lips for the remainder of his speech... not a shout, not a peep, not a whisper. Darkwing looked over to Louie, the son of the man who seemed to be losing himself before them. Remarkably, the kid was stone-faced... looked strong and brave, unshaken in seeing his father struggling. This could've been the product of a great internal strength and fortitude -- or simply a result of a lack of understanding of the gravity of recent events unfolding in the township of Burlwood.
Sheriff Rambo steadied himself, clearing the lump from his throat and trying to grab hold of the reigns of control for what was left to say. "All I really want to accomplish here," he continued, "is to make sure everyone knows we're doing all that we can to keep our children safe. When the FBI shows up, I urge you to cooperate with them fully. If they want to question you, talk to them openly and freely... if they want advice on where to look, tell them what's on your mind. If you see something, say something -- that's all."
Continued silence was the response, so he resumed.
"There are a few other things I want to say -- things that you need to be aware of. The curfew for children under sixteen has been rolled back another hour, it's six PM now. I don't want to see any children outside after six unless they are accompanied by their parents. You've all been pretty good about that lately with the seven o'clock restriction, so I don't expect this adjustment to be a painful one. Also, I suggest that you keep close eyes on your children at all times, especially if they're boys and fall into the age range that has been an issue. This isn't to say that girls or children younger or older than the others are in any less danger, we can't say that as a fact. Know where your children are, be there with them whenever possible. Please, please don't let your child go far from your home alone. That can't lead to anything good at all -- even if we weren't having these difficulties. I've tasked Deputy Ron Boudreaux with organizing a community watch force... a group of volunteers to help those of us who can't be home with our children all the time. I'm going to turn the podium over to him now to explain, so please listen and do all you can to remain vigilant and mindful of what's going on at all times. I know this is all very tough, but I'm confident that we can come through it -- if we all pull together like the community that we are... if we work together. If we take care of each other. Thank you for your attention and attentiveness, and thank you for your understanding and patience. Now, let's hear from Ron Boudreaux."
Deputy Ron took the floor eagerly and laid out the details of his plan. The town was to be divided into sectors, a concept he explained with the aid of a map projected on a screen hanging from the ceiling. Each sector was identified by a color and a number, and each would be overseen by someone called a block captain -- even though Burlwood was a town that didn't have what would generally be accepted as blocks. The roads were curved and winding, the neighborhoods amorphous and not well defined. Some of the sectors seemed too big, others too small and insignificant. They weren't all just squares, either, making the block terminology even more confusing.
Boudreaux explained that these block captains would have direct access to him via a mobile phone, a concept that was new to them. They were to call him twice a night, every night. First, they would make a quick patrol of their sector when the curfew commenced, ensuring there were no children lingering on the streets. When that was confirmed, it would be communicated to him with the first call, this one at around six thirty. A second patrol was to be made around nine o'clock, another call communicating anything suspicious thereafter. If anyone who wasn't a block captain saw anything, they were to report it to the block captain -- who would then relay it to Boudreaux, immediately and urgently, no matter what time of day or night it was.
This didn't seem like a bad idea to young Jacob, except for the simple fact that most of the disappearances hadn't occurred after dark at all. It was futile, in his mind, to police this curfew so diligently, when the curfew couldn't have done anything to save the children who'd been killed anyway.
This was a bandaid on a bullet wound, not an answer to anything at all. The concept appeased the citizens, though, gave them some sense of control and security. If that was the case, it couldn't be a bad thing, he supposed.
What was a bad thing, though -- something that made his stomach drop when he discovered it -- was the listing of a name that appeared on the projection as the block captain of sector seven in the portion of the map marked G. The sector itself was fairly large, covering the territory between Ashwood and Ledgewood, from Eastwood to Driftwood, and including the small patch of forest he knew as Booger Woods.
There beside the map -- in plain text, for everyone to see -- was the name of a person he knew was not suited to do the job as it should be done. In bold, black, Times New Roman print, appeared the familiar letters... the ones that spelled out the name of one Janet Gigu?re... Jacob's mother.
SEVENTEEN